


the stars pale beside your might

by AmaltheasGhost



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, Diaspora, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Found Family, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mandalorian Boba Fett, Mandalorian Diaspora, Slow Burn, din is a dad
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:34:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28522482
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmaltheasGhost/pseuds/AmaltheasGhost
Summary: Din's path had been set as soon as he was lifted from the bunker, the smoldering remnants of his village growing smaller as he rose above the smoke. He had cared for the foundling just as he had been cared for as a young orphan boy. He had not thought about any kind of after.Boba Fett had once been the most renowned and dangerous bounty hunter in the galaxy, his destiny set from conception, in the shape of his father's armor. His fall from grace came in the form of a violent and unending death. To be reborn in the Dune Sea was no gentle thing, and he had the scars to prove it.Both men had to carve their own paths into the fabric of the galaxy now. TheMando'adehad lived across many worlds for many centuries before, and they would live again.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Fennec Shand, Din Djarin & Grogu | Baby Yoda, Din Djarin/Boba Fett
Comments: 13
Kudos: 115





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> can i offer you some nice bobin fic during this trying time? strap in for some slow-burn, because these men are emotionally constipated. despite my brain space being largely taken up by star wars lore, there may be slight inconsistencies with canon, but i try my best!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cw: copious alcohol, canon-typical descriptions of past violence

The whir of the ship shifting into hyperdrive barely registered on Din’s mind, and neither did the ache of bruises forming underneath his beskar armor. A ghost of a feeling, a soft hand on his cheek, and a deep wrenching in his chest, rolled over and over again in his mind. He had not asked Shand or Fett where the _Slave I_ was going before they departed, and with Shand co-piloting in the cockpit, Din was left alone in the cabin with only his thoughts to keep him occupied. Bounty hunters were not usually the type to understand companionship, or the loss of it; but _Mando’ade_ were more than just mere bounty hunters.

  
\------

When Boba’s ship had docked at the star cruiser, he had been surprised to see the sordid looks on the faces of the ragtag group that Din had assembled. When Boba looked to Din, he saw no child in his arms, nor clinging to his leg.  
“The child?” He asked, addressing no one in particular.  
Din merely shook his head, as his companions looked on, their eyes shining with compassion. Boba gave a somber nod in response, not prodding for details, but assuming things had taken a turn for the worst.

  
\------

A bump on the shoulder startled Din, and he breathed in sharply, as if the sheer pressure of his thoughts had threatened to drown him. He hadn’t noticed the ship’s landing, or the cabin doors opening. Boba Fett, in full armor, stood on the ground below, and Din noted the bright light of harsh sun, and the dry heat now sweeping into the hold, palpable even through layers of armor.  
“Fennec, with me,” Boba directed, gesturing to his side. Fennec nodded, and stepped off the ramp and onto the ochre-colored sand, her signature sniper rifle in tow.  
“Shand and I have some unfinished business to attend to. You can either stay with the ship or we can part ways, but as far as I’m concerned, my debt to you is now paid.”  
  
Din’s mind flicked through the events of the past few days; his foundling gone, his ship destroyed, _his face_. It felt as if his boots were welded to the metal of the ship's cargo ramp, and in the end all he could manage was a nod to Fett. Boba returned the gesture, and their heavy footfalls in the sand slowly faded into nothingness, leaving Din alone with his thoughts once again. He sank slowly back into the seating of the cabin, and let the door close, leaving him with only the glow of the overhead light.

It was over half a rotation by the time the door opened again, flooding the hold with fresh air, scented with dry earth. Fennec stood in the doorway, her eyes widening slightly with surprise at seeing the Mandalorian, his armor reflecting the glow of the moonlight on the sand.  
“So, you’re still here after all, huh? Looks like I owe Boba some credits” she mused. When all she received was a blank stare from Din, she shrugged. “I’m here to move the ship, Boba wants to speak with you when we land.”

The first thing Din saw upon stepping out onto the desert was the warmth of lights shining out from a large, regal looking tower. Din breathed in the dry air, and glanced overhead at the sky, its moonlight casting long shadows onto the sand. He recognized the triple moons of Tatooine, though the structure perched on the cliff before him, it’s towers stretching overhead, was not familiar to him. As Din stepped into the throne room, trailing along Shand, he noticed how punctuated their footsteps were in the silence.  
Jabba’s palace, usually a hive of activity, bounty hunters blowing off steam with their newly earned credits, or else getting into scuffs and negotiations ending in blaster fire, now lay quiet. There was only one figure Din saw upon entering the vacant throne room. Boba’s moss green armor decorated the sand-colored throne he now sat upon, like a jewel beset in a royal crown. Boba stood to greet the bounty hunters, his arms outstretched in welcome.  
  
“Ah, you’re just in time for the celebrations,” he bellowed, casually walking over to the bar and removing his helmet, which he set down next to the various bottles of liquid.  
“Spotchka?” he asked, offering a small glass of glowing liquid to Din. The mandalorian was quick to accept, raising his helmet just enough to down the liquid in one go. Boba nodded with approval before seating himself at the bar, and gestured to the space next to him. Din obliged, straddling the stool and propping his elbows up on the counter.  
  
“I thought you said your debt to me was paid,” Din questioned, his head turning towards Boba, who was reaching across the bar to grab the spotchka bottle.  
Boba chuckled, “I’m simply celebrating a victory with a fellow warrior.” He downed another shot of the glowing liquid, and promptly poured another for his drinking companion. It was only now that Din noticed the absence of Shand, who had apparently vacated the throne room without Din noticing. He and Fett were completely alone. Had Boba requested to speak with Din alone?  
  
“This little hideout is going to be the base of my operations. Soon I will have work for every bounty hunter from here to the Inner Rim,” he mused, the throaty rasp in his voice giving a sharp edge to his words. “Plenty of high-paying jobs for a man of your skillset.”  
  
Din considered this for a moment. Years of experience in this line of work had made him accustomed to people with ulterior motives, although he could not think of an angle that Fett might be trying to work from him.  
“Thank you, Fett.” Boba reached to fill up both their glasses with his gloved hands. The air was comfortably still as they both drank.  
  
“I expect you’ll be needing a new ship. Some weaponry,” Fett began, casually swirling the leftover liquid in his glass. “As it happens, I’ve recently come into some assets that would be of use to you.”  
  
“I can’t accept charity like that,” Din responded. Truthfully, he was quite low on credits, having not been able to take many paying jobs the past few weeks. He could get a ship, he thought, but scraping up the credits planet-side on Tatooine would be quite an undertaking.  
  
“Don’t think of it as charity, think of it as an advance. I get you up and running, you do some work for me until it’s paid off.”  
  
Din exhaled, fixing his attention to his empty spotchka glass.  
“It’ll be hard work,” Boba continued. “I’m not in the business of giving anything away for free.” He let his words hang in Din’s mind while the helmeted man worked his jaw, considering his options. Bounty hunting was a solitary occupation, it was every man for himself, and if you slipped up, the consequences were yours alone to deal with. But here Fett was offering him a hand, an easy way out. Fett had no real reason to put trust in Din, and for that matter, Din had no reason to trust Fett, so why take such a risk?  
“Ok,” Din grunted, “I accept.”  
  
“There’s a good lad. You’ll be richer than you ever were taking jobs from the Guild,” Boba exclaimed, clinking his glass to Din’s.  
There was an easy silence as both men drank their fill, the cool night air was sweet against the scent of dank earth and booze.  
“Fennec told me what happened on the star cruiser,” Boba said, breaking the silence, his voice suddenly low, and almost gentle. Though perhaps that was just the spotchka addling Din’s perception.  
  
Din swallowed, Shand must have told him everything.  
Boba continued, “It’s no easy thing, to defeat an imperial commander like that in single combat. You should be proud.” He turned to Din now, fixing his gaze into the dark eyesight of Din’s helmet.  
  
“I don’t feel proud,” Din blurted out, almost taken aback by his sudden honesty. The spotchka was settling in his blood quicker than he realized.  
  
“That sword you’re carrying is no mere battle trophy, as I’m sure you realize. What I would have given to see the look on the princess’s face when you strode in wielding that,” he chuckled darkly.  
  
“I have a feeling she’ll be back for it sooner or later. Probably sooner.” Din paused, licked his lips. “I just- I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he muttered, averting his gaze from Fett’s bare eyes, which now felt as though they were piercing through his armor.  
  
Boba poured Din another generous glass of the glowing liquid in response, and Din was quick to toss it back.  
  
“Perhaps not, but such is the way of the galaxy, _Mand’alor_ ,” Boba teased. Din swung his head to face Boba, the lines of Din’s face creasing with exasperation underneath his helmet. Fett only shot him a sly smirk in response, shifting himself in his seat, his arms coming to rest casually on his thighs.  
  
“I’m not-” Din started, but his sentence only ended in a groan. All he had ever known was his covert, his bounties, his ship; that was all that had mattered, until the kid.  
Din shook his head, suddenly feeling as though his body was made of lead. “The foundling,” he started, his lips struggling to form the proper words, “He was… reunited with his own kind, with the jedi.”  
  
Boba’s stomach twisted at the mention of the jedi, his blood suddenly running hot in his veins. If Din noticed the quick flash of anger on Boba’s face, it was gone just as suddenly as it had come, and Din did not give it any thought.  
The bald man nodded, exhaling through his nose. “I see.” He grabbed for the spotchka bottle once again, filling up both of their glasses to the brim. Boba raised his glass above his head. “Then, may he grow strong, and make his father proud,” he pronounced, and drank deeply from his glass. Din quickly followed suit, and the two men sat for a moment in silence, letting the effects of the drink wash over them like a fog.  
  
“I don’t know if.... If I did the right thing,” Din breathed. With his defenses down, there was nothing to stop the grief from bubbling up from deep within his chest. A strange feeling seemed to grip Din from the inside, as if he might confess all his sins to this man he barely knew. He felt so alone without his covert, adrift in the vast galaxy without hands to guide him. Caring for the child had all but consumed his waking thoughts. What had once been “return the foundling”, had unwittingly become, “care for the foundling”. Din had not thought about any kind of after.  
  
Boba chewed over his words for a moment. He was not accustomed to people seeking sage wisdom from him, unless it was about the most effective way to fire a blaster through someone’s heart from half a klick away.  
“You followed the path that was set for you, that’s all there is to it,” the scarred man said quietly.  
  
Din looked deeply into his glass. “What would you have done?”  
  
Boba exhaled through his nose, “My path is different from yours.”  
  
Another glass deep and Din found himself suddenly choking on nothing but thin air, the events from the past few days suddenly catching up to him all at once, crowding his lungs. Images of his early childhood flashed through his mind, his birth father, looking down at him, silhouetted by the sky. His _buir_ , lifting him above the rising flames and smoke. Din hardly even glanced at the glass being offered to him before he downed it. His head was swimming, and he lacked feeling in his face. Heat pricked the corner of his eyes, and hot tears began trailing down his cheeks completely unwillingly. He was far too drunk to consider being ashamed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Din doesn't have long to recover from his hangover before Boba sends him out on a mission to a dangerous planet with Fennec, but it's not quite the type of job that Din was expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: canon-typical descriptions of violence, slight tw for attempted suicide by a minor character

Din could not remember being put into a bed, in fact he could hardly even remember leaving the throne room bar. Fett’s face swirled in his mind as he sat up in bed, his joints popping into place, eliciting a deep groan. Sunlight filtered through the tiny window near the ceiling of his quarters, particles of dust shimmering in the beams.

None of his armor had been removed, even the weight of his heavy boots were still fixed to his feet. He was used to sleeping with his beskar on, he would peel himself from the small lumpy cot in the Razor Crest to the resistance of stiff, aching muscles. The cot he sat on now, a carved slab of stone which jutted from the wall, was certainly not dissimilar to the one on his old ship. Though usually, when he woke to a pounding in his head, it was because he had taken a few too many hits to his helmet, not because he was hungover.

Din was not one to overindulge, as he did not particularly enjoy the feeling of his defenses being down. The last time he had drunk this much was after his _Verd’goten_. His _buir _insisted it was a rite of passage to drink until the sun came up, and a much younger Din had awoken mid-day to a dry mouth, a churning in his stomach, and a hammering behind his eyes.  
How long had it been since he had thought about that day? The day his armor was finally awarded to him, fitted like a second skin, and his heart swelled with so much pride he felt he could lasso the sun.__

____

__

Din’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raucous laughter echoing down the hall, and all at once his memories came flooding back to the present. Tatooine, with Fett and Shand, Gideon was no doubt in some remote prison hold, and the child was gone. _Not gone_ , he thought, _safe._

His gloved hand flew to his belt; the carved metal handle of the darksaber still hung to the leather. His blaster holder was the only thing that had been removed, having been set down on a shabby looking table near the bed. Din grabbed the holder and fixed it to his belt, the weight of the gun a comforting pressure on his side. He ran his hands over the small leather pouch that was tied to his hip, feeling the small metal ball wrapped inside. He tugged it open, bringing the small artifact into the light, and rolled it between his fingers for a moment before tucking it away again. His eyes slid shut as he took in a deep breath, steadying himself against the world.

The throne room was not much brighter during the day, fitting for a bounty hunter’s hub, with all it’s less than savory dealings. Boba was seated upon the throne once again, fully armored, giving an impressive air of intimidation. Before the dais stood two men, engaged in conversation with Fett. Fennec was a fixture at Boba’s side, observing the scene with a neutral expression. Though her face did not betray it, she was no doubt sizing them up, Din thought. Her sharp eyes did not leave their faces. Din had not asked Fett what had happened the day before, though he had some passing idea, if the empty palace was anything to go on. He recalled enough to know he had made an agreement with Fett, though any details discussed were fuzzy in his memory. As Din approached the dais, Fett hushed the men with a wave of his hand. All at once, everyone turned to look at Din, causing his skin to prickle slightly underneath the beskar.

“We’ll return with the shipment in two rotations, then,” said one of the men, his tentacled head turning back to Fett’s attention.

Fett dismissed them with a gruff, “Good,” and a sharp nod. The pair gave Din another look before heading up the stairs, out into the heat of the sun.  
Boba rose from his throne, stepping off the dais and towards Din. “I trust you slept well,” he remarked, casually resting his hands on his hips.

“More or less,” Din replied. He thought about asking Fett how Din had even found a bed to sleep on, but the idea that the man standing before him had helped him drunkenly slump into a cot made him swallow his words.

“Good, because I’ve got some work for you.”

“What kind of work?”

“Nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle,” Fett replied easily. “We can discuss it after you’ve cleaned yourself up. Kitchen’s in the back, refresher is down the hall from your quarters,” he said, walking back up onto the dais and seating himself on the throne.

 _My quarters,_ Din thought. What had he gotten himself into.

Din was suddenly very aware of the way his clothes clung to his skin, the grit of salt on his face from days of sweat. A shower would do him good. Walking up the stairs and back down the hall, his eyes scanned the interior of the palace. Vague memories started to surface in Din’s mind; hobbling down this same hall, drunkenly slurring to himself. His helmet turned from side to side as he scanned the open doorways of the stone walls as he walked, noting the small bunks, similar to the one he had found himself in this morning. None of them were occupied, but Din noticed the tell-tale signs of a firefight, furniture overturned, dark blaster marks scoring the walls. Perhaps they had always been there, Din thought, trying to push his concerns to the deepest corner of his mind.

The door to the refresher slid open with a hiss, and Din looked up and down the hallway before closing himself in. It wasn’t much, but he was used to even less. The pipes groaned with effort as Din flipped a switch to start the flow of water. Din worked his fingers, stripping himself first of the hard beskar which dropped to the floor with a heavy clunk, then his padding, then finally his clothes and undergarments. He winced slightly at the dark bruises that were blooming on his skin, staining his arms and legs. There was a small mirror fixed to the stone wall near the door, above a stained sink, which jutted from the wall the same way his bed did. His reflection was never something he paid much attention to, reserving that only for when he needed a shave or a haircut. Now though, he found himself staring deeply into his own brown eyes, reflected back through a layer of grime. Dark circles were prominent under his eyes, and fine lines were etched around his eyes and mouth. He sighed, he was getting old.

The warm water that washed over him was a pleasant surprise, soothing the aches that wracked his body. The water on the Razor Crest had always been bone-chillingly cold, no matter how many times he had messed with the wiring to the refresher. It was something that one became accustomed to over time, and the shock of cold had always been good for clearing his head. As he let the water run over his face, his mind was abuzz, trying to piece together the events from the past few days into something more manageable than the clutter that overwhelmed him now. No matter what he had been through in the past, he had always been able to get back up to fight again. There were many times throughout his life where he had thought he had finally met a violent demise, only to be dusted off and thrown back into the fray. This was just another of those times, he rationalized. The dull ache in his chest would fade like his bruises, and become another memory to avoid at night when exhaustion wasn’t strong enough to put him to sleep.

Steam rose from Din’s skin as he turned off the flow of water. Drops of water rolled off his skin and fell audibly to the stone floor, and he pressed a hand against the wall and hung his head to let his hair drip dry. His clothes were in need of a wash, and he longed for the familiarity of his ship, or even his bunker in the covert, as he dressed and snapped his armor back into place. He turned to the mirror again, giving himself a once-over before putting on his helmet. His viewplate display came into focus; despite everything, he still looked the same as he ever had.

Following Fett’s direction, Din managed to find the kitchen on his own. It was surprisingly well outfitted, with enough stock and appliances to service a large group. Despite his nausea-inducing liquid dinner from the night before, Din’s stomach burned with hunger; he couldn’t remember his last proper meal. He was surprised to see a plate of food placed on the kitchen counter, freshly prepared. The smell of it wafting into his helmet made his mouth water, and the growl in his stomach told him not to question the whos or whys behind the plate’s appearance.

He looked towards both the entrances to the kitchen, and, seeing no one, slid his helmet up just enough to expose his mouth. He bit into the meat with relish, and found that it was fresh, and not overly-done. It tasted salty and gamey, bringing forth memories of sitting around a campfire, the smell of smoke and roasting meat in the frigid air. Cold water dripped from the corner of his mouth as he drank hurriedly from a pitcher that had been sitting on the counter; when it was empty, he poured himself another and downed it just as quickly. He licked the remaining grease from his lips, and slid his helmet to cover the lower half of his face.

When he made his way to the anteroom again, Fett and Shand were both leaning against a table engaged in conversation. Fett turned to Din, and ushered him over to join them.

“Find the food ok?” Fett asked with a tilt of his helmet.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Make sure to keep your strength up,” he said, his tone more authoritative than warm.  
“Now, let’s talk about the job. What I need you to do is make a run to Cyrkon. I have a contact on Motok who has information for me, you’ll be picking it up and bringing it back to me.”

“That’s it? Go pick up a data stick?”

Fett looked pointedly at Din. “Is that not to your liking, _Mand’alor?_ ”

Fennec barely managed to stifle a laugh.

Din sighed, was Fett going to hold that over his head forever?

Boba started again, “Don’t misunderstand, this isn’t going to be some trivial errand. This information broker has been in hiding for years. I was on his tail before-” he cut himself off and cleared his throat, “some time ago, but I haven’t been in contact with him for quite a while. Your job is to hunt him down, and get that information by any means necessary.”

“Should I expect resistance from the target?” Din said, cocking his head.

“I’ll give you the credits to barter with him, but I can’t guarantee it will be a smooth and easy transaction. Fennec will go with you as your lookout.”

Din looked to Fennec, who flashed him a half-smile, seemingly amused.

Boba slid a puck across the table, the holo-display lighting up with the small humanoid figure of a man with horns hanging around his head, his name displayed in Huttese underneath.

“An Iktotchi?” Din asked.

“I told you this wouldn’t be a simple job,” Fett said.

“But if he’s an Iktochi, won’t he know I’m coming?”

“Most likely. But I doubt he has the means to escape off-world. Last I heard, he was working at some cantina in the slum district.” Fett crossed his arms in front of his chest.

Din considered this for a moment, trying to piece together a strategy. In the back of his mind, he had a sneaking suspicion that this was Fett’s way of testing him. His skills, or his trustworthiness, probably both.

“What kind of information am I looking for?”

“That’s on a need-to-know basis. Tell him that you’re looking for information about stargazing on Florrum.”

“Stargazing on Florrum?”

“It’s a codeword. He’ll know what it means.”

Din considered this. This kind of work was, admittedly, a bit out of his scope. Bail skippers and trafficking violations were more his speed, intel-gathering was for spies, not bounty hunters. But, this was the task Fett had set forth for him, as part of their agreement.

“What about a ship?” Din asked, directing his attention back to Fett.

“The _Slave I_ is docked outside,” he said coolly, as if the answer had been obvious. “Any other questions?”

“Not that I can think of,” Din said, exasperation leaking into his voice.

“Good.” Boba pulled a sachet from his dark robes and pushed it into Din’s gloved hands. The metallic clink was familiar to Din, Republic credits.

“I’ll be waiting for your return,” Fett said as he turned to walk down the hallway. “Good hunting,” he called out before disappearing from view.

“I’m driving,” Fennec declared, and grabbed her rifle from where it was leaning against the table before turning and walking towards the light filtering through the entrance.

Din did not find discomfort in silence, in fact he often preferred it to trying to think of words to fill it with. But as he sat in the co-pilot seat next to Shand, he found the hum of the ship to be almost oppressive in the quiet. Under the cover of his helmet, he snuck the occasional sideways glances, but Shand’s gaze never wandered from the ship’s controls. It was Shand who finally broke the silence. “So, you have a plan?” she said, finally meeting Din’s gaze.

Hunting without a tracking fob was more difficult than with one, but not impossible. There had been a few shady deals he had agreed to in the past that required the absence of one. One certain little green womprat had been the product of such a deal. Din blinked.

“Fett mentioned he would probably be in the slums. I’ll make my way there, start looking for the target. You’ll shadow me and keep an eye out, in case he tries to run.”

“Or in case someone tries to put a blaster bolt through you,” Fennec said slyly.

“That too,” he breathed, looking away into the stars passing them by in a blur.

Fennec snorted. Din swung his head to look at her.

“Something funny?” he asked sincerely.

She smirked. “Yeah, you sound like Boba.”

Din shifted in his seat slightly. He wasn’t sure what to make of that comparison. He let his silence do the talking for him, sitting back in his seat and focusing his attention to the puck Fett had given him, studying the target’s facial features. He wouldn’t be the only Iktotchi roaming the streets.

Motok was a squalid city, having been overrun by smugglers and black market dealers some years ago. It had become the hotspot for people of all kinds to get their hands on an endless variety of unsavory items, and the resulting overpopulation led to the pollution of the planet’s atmosphere. Nowadays, it was a city of forgotten people, a place where you ended up and didn’t come back from. Din wondered how Boba had managed to track the Iktotchi down here, and for that matter, why. Not asking questions in the past had helped Din sleep soundly at night, when he could, but from time to time, an uncharacteristic curiosity got the better of him. Especially when it came to people that he was sharing lodgings with.

“We’ll be landing soon,” Shand said, pressing buttons on the ship’s interface to prepare to dock.

The foggy brown tint of Cyrkon’s atmosphere suddenly came into view as the ship shifted out of hyperdrive. As they approached the surface, Motok’s vast dome became clearer and clearer through the toxic clouds. They were not hailed even as they flew closer to the shipyard, traffic control having long been abandoned.

A small opening in the clear veneer of the protective bubble opened up to let the Slave I in, and promptly closed behind them when the entry was clear. Fennec landed the ship with ease, the cockpit turning so that their seatbacks were now parallel to the ground. Din climbed out of his seat, stopping first at the weapons hold. Fett’s ship was, unsurprisingly, well-stocked, and Din helped himself to a sturdy-looking blaster, ammo, and a couple flash bangs. Seeing the cabinet of shiny blasters made him long for his Amban rifle, with its extended scope that had lent itself well to many successful bounties. It had taken him months to save up enough money for the broken blaster, and all the parts to get it working again. He supposed he could save up again, start re-stocking. Seeing the array of weaponry before him, he briefly wondered how long it had taken Fett to amass such an armory.

Shand reached around Din to grab her sniper rifle and her orange helmet. Din hadn’t even heard her leave the cockpit, which unnerved him. She placed the helmet on her head, and fixed the carrying strap of the rifle over her shoulders.

“You got a stun setting on that thing?” Din asked, gesturing towards the impressive rifle with his chin.

“Haven’t used it in a while, but, yes,” she said.

“We need him alive, so if he tries to run, you’ll have to stop him,” he said as he started fixing the weapons to his person.

“Blaster bolt to the leg might work a bit better.”

“Not for negotiations, it won’t.”

She smirked. “Depends on your definition of negotiations.”

Din sighed, this had to be her way of getting back at him for before.

“You ready?” she asked.

Din ran a gloved hand first over the blaster holder fixed to his hip, then along his leather belt; blaster, saber, sachet, flash bangs. He nodded.

The streets of Cyrkon were crowded, it was almost impossible not to brush elbows with other people as they walked along the thoroughfare. Tall structures loomed over the mass of crowds, the tops of them gleaming silver in the light, in harsh contrast to the dirty streets below. Everywhere Din looked, there were piles of garbage and scrap. Grimy looking droids meandered about the alleyways, their blinking lights piercing through the shadows as Din walked past. Hunched figures sat on the dirty ground, looking up at the passersby with vacant stares. He gave a quick look over his shoulder, spotting Fennec’s orange helmet among the crowd about ten paces back.

Asking for directions seemed pointless, and Din doubted that where they were headed would be printed on any of the faded and graffitied city maps. But he knew his way around a place like this, he had been to his fair share of crowded and dirty cities, abandoned by both the Hutt cartels and the New Republic. Those who didn't have enough to live in the tall buildings would pack into patched up hovels in the outskirts of the city, and that was where they would find their target. Din ducked into alleyways whenever he could, bugs and little animals scurrying underneath his purposeful footsteps. There were too many eyes, sizing up the price of his beskar in their heads, hungrily reaching for their blasters as Din walked by. The armorer had warned him that it would attract a lot of attention, but Mandalorians were such a rare sight in the galaxy these days, that Din had always stuck out, regardless of the sheen of his armor. But right now, the less he was seen, the better.

The farther he walked, the smaller the tall buildings grew in the background. In their place were lop-sided metal structures, and streets just large enough to accommodate people and speeder bikes, winding without seemingly any clear direction throughout the grouping of buildings. The structures were all only a couple floors tall, and crammed so tightly together that Din was having a hard time distinguishing them, and the signs that adorned their entryways. Food vendors lined the streets, the attendants, sweaty from the steam, calling out in Huttese to anyone who passed by. The streets were much less overcrowded here, however, Din could not shake the feeling of being watched from the dark corners. He had to keep his guard up.

Din spotted a lone Quarren leaning up against one of the buildings, underneath one of the few streetlights that dotted the walkways.

“Excuse me,” Din called out. The Quarren turned his head.

“Yeah, what?” he wheezed.

“I’m looking to get a drink, know any good cantinas around here?”

The Quarren scoffed, his tentacles twitching. “I’m not a tour guide, Mandalorian.”

Din reached into the pouch that Boba had given him, pulling out a decent amount of credits, and handing them to the aquatic man, who quickly stuffed them into his pocket. His deep black eyes flicked up and down, sizing Din up; he huffed.

“There’s a place just down the way,” he said, jamming a thumb towards a grouping of buildings farther down the street. “‘S called Flit’s.”

“Thanks,” Din said with a nod. The Quarren grumbled in response, slinking away down a back-alley with his hand clasped in his pocket.

Din turned back once more to make sure Shand was still trailing behind him. She was casually leaning up against a metal wall, scanning the surrounding area. When she met Din’s gaze, Din pointed his chin towards the building, and Shand nodded in understanding.

Din could hear loud voices even before he entered the bar, the sound of spirited conversation and brassy laughter echoing down the street. He pushed through the curtain and stepped into the dimly lit room. It was certainly a popular bar, people of all kinds were gathered at the bar as well as at the round tables that decorated the space. A single, shabby looking holo-display was playing some kind of fighting broadcast. A small crowd huddled around it, cheering as one of the bulky figures on the screen took a blow to the face. There were a few who looked him over as he entered, but they were quick to direct their attention elsewhere when Din turned his helmet’s viewplate in their direction. There was nothing like Mandalorian armor to intimidate would-be thugs, who no doubt had more than one bounty on their heads. Din scanned the room, his helmet’s display allowing him to focus on the faces of the bar patrons. None of them matched the target.

No one bat an eye as he walked further into the bar, looking from face to face, occasionally feigning interest in the broadcast. He slipped into the background, making sure no one was looking as he slid behind another curtain that led to the back of the bar. He stepped quietly, peering into the open doorways. There was the refresher, a pantry, and finally the kitchen. He stopped just short of the kitchen’s opening and pressed himself to the wall, peeking his head out just enough to scan the area. Empty. Completely empty, in fact; no cooks or bartenders in sight.

_Crash!_

Din whipped his head towards the sound, which had come from behind one of the metal counters. A metal bowl clattered noisily as it rotated on the floor. There was a flash of outside light, and the sound of a door hissing open, and Din set off after it at a gallop. He burst through the bar’s back door and into a back alleway. He looked left, right, setting his helmet to scan for footprints. His display locked onto the tracks, from the look of the gait, the target was sprinting down the alleyway, probably trying to use the darkness as cover. Din sped off after the footprints, unholstering his blaster and disengaging the safety. The Iktotchi’s footpath wound through alleyways, down an empty street, and into a dimly lit neighborhood. Din breathed hard underneath his helmet. He hadn’t checked to see if Shand was still tailing him, but he hoped she had better eyes on the target than he did. Neon signs flashed overhead as he ran down the street, dodging the people who gave him odd looks as he breezed past. He slowed to catch his breath when the footprints were closer together, the gait had decreased to a brisk walk, and lead into one of the two-story buildings that held living quarters. Din walked up the thin metal stairs, cautiously following the prints, until they stopped in front of one of the apartment doors. He readied his blaster, and pounded on the door with a closed fist.

“Taesa Kii, we need to talk,” he called out. No response. “I’m not going to hurt you, I was sent to retrieve some information from you,” Din tried again. There was a moment of silence.

“I do not deal in information anymore,” came a wavering voice from inside.

“I’m willing to pay. I have credits.”

“I said I do not do that anymore. I have a blaster, if you do not leave, I will shoot you,” he said with a grave tone.

Din thought for a moment. “You’re an Iktotchi right? You can see things before they happen?,” he said, pausing for a response. When there was none, he continued. “You can see that I am Mandalorian. Once I’ve been contracted, I am honor-bound to complete my end of the deal. If we can’t negotiate, it’ll only end badly for you.”

There was a string of what Din assumed was curses from behind the door. Din heard a flurry of movement, the sound of various objects being thrown about the apartment. Stepping quietly, Din looked around the corner of the building, searching for any possible places the man could escape from. There were no other exits or windows for him to slip through, so unless he had some kind of laser saw to cut into the neighboring quarters, the front door was the only exit. When he came back around the corner, everything had gone quiet inside. Din wasn’t the best at slicing doors, but there were some jobs that warranted it. A charge blast would attract too much attention here. He bent down on one knee, pulling a tool from his belt and setting to work on releasing the lock. After a few moments, there was a click, and the light on the door’s release button switched to green. He stood up and readied his blaster.

The door slid open, and the wide form of the Iktotchi stood before him, a blaster in his large hand pointed squarely to Din’s chest.

“What do you want with me?” he asked, his eyes wide.

“I’m looking for information about stargazing on Florrum,” he said in a hushed voice.

The Iktotchi twitched, barely stifling a gasp. “Who are you with?” he asked, raising his voice.

“No one, I was-”

“Who are you with?” the Iktotchi shouted, hysteria creeping around the edges of his voice. The hand holding his blaster began to shake.

“Boba Fett,” Din relinquished. This did not pacify the man as Din had hoped it would.

“I will not go with you. Leave, now,” he demanded, pushing the blaster closer to the opening of Din’s neck.

“You know I can’t do that,” Din said, pointing his own blaster directly between the man’s eyes. His breathing quickened audibly.

“Please, just let me go, pretend you never saw me. You do not understand,” the Iktotchi pleaded.

Din stood stalwart, not moving a muscle. Dark eyes stared desperately into Din’s viewplate, the Iktotchi’s expression frozen in a desperate grimace. Sweat began to bead around his temples, his frantic breathing apparent in the quiet of the night. With a quick movement of his wrist, he turned the blaster on himself.

“No!” Din called out, reaching for the blaster with his unarmed hand.

 _Pew._ The tan-skinned man dropped to the floor, the blaster he was holding clattering against the metal. Din dropped to a crouch, expecting a gruesome flow of blood to start spreading across the floor. But there was none. He turned to look behind him, Fennec’s orange helmet was visible from a nearby balcony. She looked up from her scope to give him a thumbs up. Din let out the breath he had been holding in and stood back up, his knees popping as he rose.

“Well, now what,” he muttered under his breath to the unconscious man that was now spread on the floor.

He made quick work of tying the man’s hands behind him, in case he woke before Din could find what he was looking for. Information brokers usually kept reports on data-sticks for quick and stealthy transactions, though most of them were either heavily encrypted or written in code. What Fett could want from a man that was desperate enough to shoot himself in the head, Din could only wonder. Din set to searching the dingy apartment, overturning furniture, reaching underneath crevices, knocking on the wall to listen for hollow spots. He soon found himself standing amid a mass of scattered clothes, papers, and garbage. Nothing.

He let out an irritated sigh and cracked his knuckles, a bit of a nervous tic of his. He rolled his shoulders, turning his head towards the ceiling to stretch his neck. As he absentmindedly gazed upwards, something caught his eye, a misshapen tile in the ceiling that just barely stood out from the rest of the weathered tile. He stretched out, standing on his toes to reach, and pushed on the tile. It popped out of place with ease, revealing a small section of empty space. He reached his hand into the darkness, feeling around the base of the ceiling. His fingers hit what felt like a small box, and he clasped his hand around it and pulled it out. The metal of the box was covered in dust and battered in places, and would not open, even when Din grunted with effort trying to strongarm it. He cursed under his breath. The Iktochi began to stir, groaning as he opened his eyes to see Din standing over him.

“ _Koochoo wee shahnit_ ,” he spat at him.

“How do I open it?” Din asked, crouching down to his level.

The man sat up, looking intently into Din’s viewplate. “I will not tell you.”

Din sighed, rolling his eyes underneath his helmet. He reached into his pockets for the credits Fett had given him, and poured out the small bag in front of the Iktotchi’s face, the small metal strips clinking against each other.

The man scoffed, “You think these credits are worth anything to me? Money will not help me now.”

“What do you mean?”

“They will hunt me down for letting this information get out.”

“Who will?” Din pressed.

“The Imperials,” the man said with a low voice.

“The Imperials are gone. The Republic has bounties out for anyone who served under them,” Din dismissed.

“No,” the man shook his head. “No, they will come. Even if I flew to the Unknown Regions, they would find me. And now, they will hunt you too.” He searched Din’s helmet once again, looking for sympathy in the pure beskar, but was met only with his warped reflection looking back at him.

“Please, just drop the box and leave. It is not worth whatever credits they’re offering,” he pleaded, inching closer to Din.

Din stood up, pocketing the small box. Getting it open could be Fett’s problem, it was clear this guy wouldn’t be open to any further negotiations.

“Sorry, but I have a job to do.” Din stepped over the man and opened the door, walking into the night.

“Then it will be your death! Yours, your familys, your peoples,” he called out after him. Din ignored the feeling of his arm hairs standing on edge as he stepped out onto the street.

Fennec was waiting just down the way, her helmet tucked underneath her arm as she chewed at a piece of roasted meat, skewered on a stick.

“Took a while. Did you get the information?” she asked.

“Yeah, I got it,” Din said, his voice steely.

“Let’s get out of here then,” she said, taking one last bite before tossing the stick into the street. She pushed her helmet back on over her head. “That’s two you owe me now, by the way,” she added as she strode ahead of the armored man and down the thoroughfare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter will have a lot more boba and din interaction, i promise!!


End file.
